L.I.C. (The Dream)
I inhale the breezes
Between drifting and waking;
Dreaming of soft waves that caress sunlit shores
Painted on the side of a sand colored candle.
On the windowsill,
On chipped white painted shores,
The East River water
East bitter water
Washes the smell of gray Brillo shreds
Under the white quiet moon.
In iron blue skies like shingles
Sand and damp and rust tangle
In clumps of seaweed, green oysters of moss.
The East River water rocks and recedes,
Sleeps and drifts back into green sewage tunnels.
And the ambulance siren tears out her hair
tangled in copper Con-Edison wires,
All the while puffing on red and white striped pipes,
The color of inverted Marlboro reds.
Socrates stares across the river with a palm up.
In his park near the other statues,
Come with a blanket on the rusty yellow grass
And smell the river.